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To Write is to Remove the Mask

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

“When the heck are you going to start writing again,” quipped the voice on the other end of the line. You know the one- the friend that not only knows where the proverbial bodies are hidden, but probably helped you bury them as well. “You’ve got a gift, you know. I never understood why you stopped.” 

“I know,” I murmured, “I just haven’t figured out what to write about.”

“Who cares! Stop overthinking it, and just say what you want to say! Who are you writing for, anyway?”

I muttered something else about needing to research if I want to write a book, and what should I choose, I should put it off until the kids are older, and some other uselessness, but I know she’s right. Once I put pen to paper (or finger to phone, as it were), I’m rarely at a loss for words. But I worry. What will people think? What will people say? What if nobody reads it? Or worse- what if they do? 

That’s it, you know. The vulnerability. The nakedness. As much as I love when someone sees me- truly sees me- there is a certain safety in remaining hidden. 

Behind the mask of social politeness I don’t have to show my shortcomings. My faults. But isn’t that like an ostrich sticking his head in the ground and convincing himself he’s hidden? He’s fooling no one but himself. Staying safely behind the mask if someone rejects you, you can convince yourself they were rejecting the mask. They weren’t rejecting you. There’s less vulnerability that way. Less nakedness. Less being known too. Less everything, really.

To be fair, I don’t think I really wear a mask. I’ve always been a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girl. But there is a river that flows through me that not everyone gets to see. Part of that is wise, as we should not just bare our dude pest parts to the casual passerby, but part of that is the part that can touch another soul. Those vulnerabilities that we all have, but pretend not to, until someone finally gives them voice and our inner selves shout a resounding, “Yes!” Perhaps you feel it too?

Sometimes people will reject us anyway, mask or no. There are naysayers in every crowd. But there are encourages too. Like minds and tribe members just waiting to discover the mystery that is me, that is you.

So here’s to honesty. To transparency. To real. To being a little bit undone. To trusting my gut and letting go. Living life with an open heart, and open hands. 

How to Reduce Anxiety and Reclaim Your Peace

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

Anxiety is part of the human experience—an emotion that whispers (or sometimes shouts) that something is uncertain or unsafe. It’s a signal, a call to pay attention. But when anxiety becomes chronic, it can feel like a heavy chain holding us back from living wholeheartedly. The good news? We can develop practices that help reduce anxiety and return to a grounded, present state.

Over the years, I’ve learned that anxiety often feeds on fear and the stories we tell ourselves. Let’s dive into some practical ways to reduce its grip.

1. Name It to Tame It

Anxiety thrives in ambiguity. A phrase first coined by psychiatrist Dr. Dan Siegel, “Name it to Tame It” is the first step in lowering anxiety levels. By identifying what you’re feeling, you reduce the intensity of the anxiety you’re experiencing. Are you nervous, scared, overwhelmed, or uncertain? Naming the specific emotion creates space between you and the anxiety. It signals to your brain: I see you, but you don’t control me.

Practice:
When anxiety arises, pause and ask yourself:

  • What am I feeling right now?
  • What is this anxiety trying to tell me?

Writing your thoughts in a journal can also help externalize the emotion, making it feel more manageable.

2. Challenge the Stories in Your Head

Anxiety often spins narratives about worst-case scenarios. These stories are rarely accurate, but they feel real because they tap into our vulnerabilities. When you feel anxiety building, pause and question the story you’re telling yourself.

Ask:

  • Is this story true?
  • What’s another possible explanation?
  • What would I tell a friend in this situation?

Consciously reframing the narrative with a more positive or realistic one helps you regain control of your perspective.

3. Connect with Your Breath

Our breath is a powerful tool for regulating our nervous system. When we’re anxious, our breathing becomes shallow, reinforcing the body’s stress response. Slowing down and deepening your breath can calm the mind and body almost instantly.

Try this “Box Breathing” exercise:

  • Inhale deeply for four counts.
  • Hold your breath for four counts.
  • Exhale slowly for six counts.
  • Repeat for a few minutes.

This practice shifts your body from the sympathetic nervous system, or fight/flight/freeze response, to the rest-and-digest response of the parasympathetic nervous system.

4. Build a Resilience Toolkit

Resilience isn’t about avoiding anxiety—it’s about learning to navigate it. Cultivating small daily habits can create a foundation of calm.

Ideas for your toolkit:

  • Movement: A walk, yoga, or dance can release pent-up energy.
  • Gratitude: Write down three things you’re thankful for daily.
  • Connection: Share your worries with a trusted friend or loved one.
  • Nature: Spend time outside to reconnect with the bigger picture.
  • Journaling: Write down your thoughts and feelings. If you notice a pattern of negative stories, actively reframe them into more positive narratives.
  • Prayer or meditation:
    The practice of prayer can lead to comfort and peace. Studies show it reduces muscle tension, slows your heart rate, and can actually change your brain chemistry.
  • Know when to ask for help: If you continue to struggle with anxiety or it feels overwhelming, consider therapy to gain tools for managing your inner narrative

These practices remind us that we are capable, grounded, and supported.

5. Be Compassionate with Yourself

Anxiety can make us feel weak or flawed, but it’s just part of being human. Instead of judging yourself, practice self-compassion. Speak to yourself with the same kindness you’d offer a struggling friend.

Positive Affirmations to try:
“I’m doing the best I can, and that’s enough.”

“I am not my anxiety.”

“I am present, calm, and focused.”

“I am safe and protected.”

6. Seek Help When Needed

Sometimes, anxiety feels too big to handle alone. There’s no shame in reaching out to a therapist or counselor. In fact, it’s one of the bravest steps you can take toward healing.

Anxiety doesn’t have to dictate your life. By acknowledging it, challenging it, and building habits that foster resilience, you can reduce its impact and create space for joy and connection. Remember, you are not alone in this journey—and you are stronger than you think.

A Half-Baked Ode to This August Heat That I Do Hate…

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

Dear August in Texas,

I hate you.

The unrelenting heat marked out in a long line of stifling, unchanging triple digit segments trudges across my screen. Day and night have stopped making sense. There’s just hot, more hot, and I think I’m dying hot. It’s disrespectful.

I live like a vampire, moving from shadow to shadow, dodging sunlight. Waking before dawn to dress and pray, only to step into the heavy, already heated morning air. Thankful to work inside, I make the dash from car to office. Lights turned down low, blinds drawn tight to the piercing sun, I tie up my hair, turn down the air, and set to work. That one girl in a cardigan knocks on my door to complain of the cold. I crunch my Sonic ice and ignore her.

Heading out for my daily rounds, I’m met at the door by a blast of hot air, burning my face and taking my breath. The heat comes up from the pavement in waves, blazing sun without mercy beating down from above. Even through my darkened car windows, the sun reaches down and pulls me into a scorching embrace. I feel myself bake under its unwelcome attention, as my mascara coated lashes stick to my cheeks.

I hear they’ve cancelled the lawn mower parade out in West Texas again. It seems the tires are melting into the asphalt. The only piece of this news that I find surprising is that there’s a lawn mower parade at all. Of course the roads are melting from the heat. Wait- what?

Sapped of energy, I stumble home in the late afternoon and strip down for a fever dream under the fan. The teasing melody of a beachy, salt box August floats over me, elusive as the breezy summer picture it paints. I awake at dusk, eat late, and spend time with my family in the dark. Don’t touch me.

Heading out before bed to water the plants, 11pm and it’s still suffocatingly hot. I think of the winter, vowing to never curse the cold again as I silently pray for a summer storm to bring the rain.

Friday night lights bring no relief as the Boys of Fall play ball on long dead grass in the 110 degree heat. Patrons pass out on the sidelines and we shuffle out of the stadium in sweaty rows.

In a burst of Saturday morning optimism, I brave the attic to gather decor for the season ahead and (hopefully) cooler weather. Putting the last Autumn leaf in place, I can almost believe Fall is coming, (that ever elusive friend), until I step outside and my Pumpkin Spice candle melts unlit in my hand.

Dear Texas in August, I hate you.

But I will survive you, and because you are Texas, I’ll take you.

February 23

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

On this day…. after months of research and testing and anguishing over decisions to be made, I held my hands wide in the biggest surrender of my life, standing by weak-kneed as a lauded young surgeon cut into my husband’s brain. Mercy flowed like a river on that day, down this mountain we’d only begun to climb.

The road that followed left it’s scars- some on heads and some on hearts, but today he is driving, seizure-free, and the proud owner of his own private practice.

When I hold my hands high on Sunday morning- in prayer, or surrender, or praise- my fingers sometimes find their way to the curve of the back of his head. And like braille, I read the reminder that miracles still happen and hope blooms even here.

To Open Doors and Late Night Talks

/ A. Ward, LPC / 1 Comment

When my feet find their way unbidden to your front door, it thrills me to my tired toes to see the welcome mat already out and the porch light on. Cheery blooms wave their hello and you always have time for a chat. I just love that. Part of me often wonders if you were expecting me, for you rarely seem surprised. Even driving home from college on impulse, you knew when I was coming.

The cool oasis of fern and flower you’ve created under the oak tree that somehow survived being mowed over repeatedly as a sapling, is now a haven on a hot summer day. Fresh iced tea in the glasses- yours always tastes the best. The smell of earth and foliage as you water and evening comes, bread crumbs tossed out for the birds, and grandchildren hanging from every limb of yet another stubborn tree.

Neighborhood children still knock on your door in the hopes that someone can come out to play. “Who’s that one?” I asked pointing up in the tree one afternoon. “I don’t know,” you smiled, content in the knowledge that your long empty nest is still a safe place to land. “I’m sure he’s a friend of somebody’s.”

For as long as I can remember there has always been room for one more at your table: whether for a friend we drug home without warning in our teens, or bonus sisters from across an ocean and our ever expanding family, or even now, for world weary grownup children who stop by unannounced when these in-the-middle-years get the best of us and we need a moment’s respite.

You in your chairs, pets stretched across laps, your warm greeting blending with the smell of supper on the stove are among the most comforting things in my memory. In winter a cheerful fire in the fireplace warming my back until it’s hot to the touch. In summer, lazy swims and long talks under the moon, watermelon by the pool.

Washing my hands I catch my reflection in the mirror- the same one that’s seen my image since I was four. I’m older now, but the plush carpet beneath my bare feet and the pictures on the walls whisper the same comfort they always have. After dinner conversations roll easy off the tongue- the day’s worries and job and kids, dreams and heartbreaks and old neighborhood news.

Hugs goodbye- the most familiar ones I know- as I head for the door. “Goodnight. Thank you for dinner. Have a great week. Drive safe. I love you.” Each word heartfelt and steeped in belonging. This sense of home goes deep into my bones and warms me as I step into the cool night air and make the drive to the home I’ve built for my own children- may they always feel it’s call.

An unplanned evening made extraordinary by the ordinariness of it all. This place you’ve made a home- the love, the time, the daily welcoming in- is a gift I’m still unwrapping. It is a blessing to my life and to my children and their children and to too many others to count.

Thank you.

Of Quarantine and Basketball

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

Beautiful girl- you can do hard things!💗

Quarantine’s affected us all in different ways. Some fared better than others, but all are changed.

This little miss went from being always on the go, to learning the art of becoming un busy. Out in the country and far from friends she couldn’t gather with anyway, she mourned the loss of the comforting rhythm of her school/church/family/friends/karate/ballet-filled days.

And then in August, she mourned again the undoing of her quiet days, trading her creative and unstructured time for the hustle and bustle of playing educational catch-up in the midst of a pandemic, sighing deeply behind her mask.

In November, she begged to play basketball, but with COVID numbers on the rise, her protective parents wouldn’t take the risk. 🤷🏼‍♀️ Tears were shed all around, and Santa left a driveway goal in weary consolation.

Enter March, with fresh pleas for action. We relented, and she stood giddily in line as volleyball called her name. But when the time came, she didn’t want to go. She preferred the comfort of the quiet, lingering stillness of what remained of quarantine.

But despite her fear, she got up, she showed up, and she leveled up. As I watch her push herself, I smile. She loves this stuff. The bleary- eyed self-consciousness melting into resilient fire. 🔥

Beautiful girl, you can do hard things💗

The Weight and Honor of The Space We Hold

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

A fiery bus crash. A young life lost. The hollowed stares and still-bandaged limbs of survivors. Siblings speaking of her in the present tense. A parent too lost in grief to receive the comfort of the comforters just outside her door. One officer lying in a hospital bed wracked with guilt that he couldn’t save them all, and another recounting in a daze the trauma of a wreck he worked and a door he knocked on in the middle of the night twenty years ago.

A call on a Sunday morning. The second of its kind in seven days. A troubled teen made a foolish choice at the wrong end of a gun, but he was ours. 

Another did nothing wrong at all, but excessive use of force ended his beautiful, promising life, and a whole community bled out.

A stray bullet at a party. 

A five dollar dice game turned deadly. 

An accidental overdose.

A pact between friends that ended with the loss of life. 

A game of Russian Roulette that isn’t a game at all, but instead, exactly that. A losing bet with the highest stakes and no take backs. 

A permanent solution to a temporary problem that is every parent’s worst nightmare.

And again.

And again.

And again.

The details are horrendous and have seeped into my soul. Broken into the dark places we don’t talk about in the light. The ones that wake you up in the middle of the night, that send you to check that your children are safe in their beds just one more time before you drift off to sleep and again at 4 am.  

Counselors standing amidst the sea of survivors, applying band-aids where heart surgery is needed. Emotional CPR, breathing life into life after life, only to find ourselves breathless and those around us gasping for air. Comforting the grieving only to become the grieving ourselves, we look to each other in a loss. A long line of needless, heedless loss, and too many close calls to count. In the span of a year a suspected active shooter, and six lost to gun violence in as many months a heartbeat before that. Now yet another precious life cut short by his own hands. 

How did we end up here? Where does it stop? I fear that it doesn’t stop at all, but around and around we go.

I’ve seen my share of trauma and had the rare honor to meet others in their dark and broken places. Stepping into the light after laboring in the dark startles the senses and often smacks of sacrilege. Frivolous coffee runs. Rushes to meet deadlines that no longer seem to matter. Laughter trickling down the hall from those that neither know nor want to know the sharp cut from the shards of their neighbor’s brokenness. 

We slip quietly back into our places, return to our desks, and lay down our capes for another day. Grateful that this mantle is ours to wear, and that giving the gift of our presence is often our most important work. But make no mistake: there is a price that is paid for the honor of holding space, and the vicarious trauma of the weight of it all takes its toll. As the world marches on and the demands of job and family continue to call, there are those of us still bleeding out while we try to juggle all the pieces.

Usually I don’t carry these things home, but sometimes it’s different. I close my eyes and see my child’s face, instantly recoiling from the thought, as a mother’s raw pain sears my heart. Those days are the hardest—moving through the hours like molasses, heaviness in the simplest of tasks. 

Why do I do it? There’s no doubt that I am called to this—that walking this road with the wounded is my way through the pain. It’s what I do. It’s how I’m built. But every once in a while, it seems that something comes along that reminds me that I’m not bulletproof. 

I’ve learned that sometimes the beauty is in the breaking, and it’s okay—healthy even—if I break a little too. I’ve found that it’s true that the light shines best through our broken places, better equipping us to light the way. 

It makes me a better counselor too. But God, what a price to pay.